'Plastic on the left, bugs ahead': The code language of bus helpers

In 1988, Dalim was 13 years old. He worked as a helper on the bus route from the National Zoo to Sadarghat. Making seven to eight trips a day was not a big deal back then. This was because there weren't as many "plastics" on the road! 

Here, "plastic" refers to private cars—the phrase " Ostadh (bus driver), plastic on the left" wasn't used then. As far as Dalim can recall, the phrase started being used around the mid-90s.

Over time, the number of cars and people on Dhaka's roads kept increasing. This also led to more frequent arguments, both inside and outside the buses. The drivers and helpers had to stay more alert than before. They needed to keep an eye out for rickshaws ahead, private cars on the left, pickup trucks behind, and traffic sergeants at intersections.

Inside the bus, passengers were also on edge. Every couple of minutes, an argument would break out—either over the fare or the speed of the bus. But the biggest problem was with the "plastic." Even the slightest touch could mean trouble, as these private cars belonged to the wealthy and had more influence. 

Hence, traffic sergeants don't hesitate to file a case. That's when the driver taught the helpers to say, "Ostadh, bame plastic" (Bus driver, there's plastic on the left) if a private car was nearby. It was a quick phrase that gave the driver more time to be cautious.

"Piliar" of eleven trips

Around 2000, Dalim became a bus driver, or "Ostadh." The roads weren't as crowded as they are today. Dalim was so skilled at driving that, in the official register for Shikor Bus Service, they noted him as the "Pillar (player) of eleven trips"—a driver who could complete eleven trips in a day.

Now, as a driver for Mirpur Super Link, Dalim laments that he can't drive freely anymore. It takes half an hour just to cover half a kilometre. Driving from the end of Manik Mia Avenue, past Aarong's corner, and towards Road 27, there are numerous signals to pass. For every four buses, you can expect to see about 20 private cars and 60 to 70 motorcycles.

"When we attempt to turn the bus, it inevitably brushes against something or someone and meanwhile, the passengers start complaining, from the slow pace, saying, 'Oi driver, gari chalao naki rikshaw?'(Hey, are you driving a bus or a rickshaw?). It feels like the bus staff are constantly under pressure, both inside and outside the vehicle."

Dalim feels disheartened by the lack of judgement that comes from the wealthy. A family of three owns four cars.  One car is used by the gentleman for his office, another by the lady for her beauty salon visits, and the third takes the child to school. The fourth car is kept as an extra for running errands like shopping. Four cars for just three people take up so much space on the road!

Even the slightest scratch can ruin a driver or owner's earnings for the day. The driver has to hit the road with five important documents in hand—a fitness certificate, tax token, driver's licence, and so on. To settle a case, they're usually given 20 days.

Numbers and frenzies  

I met Dalim at the Mirpur-12 bus stand. There's a small office with a table and three stools where bus serials are maintained. Dalim rests one day after another. On their days off, other conductors and drivers come here. Even on their rest days, they spend most of their time around the buses. 

On the days Dalim drives, he wakes up at 4:30 am By 6:00 am, he's behind the steering wheel, working nonstop until 11:00 pm. He only gets 10 minutes for lunch, and even after finishing his shift, he spends another hour or so closing up the bus. He settles the accounts with the owner, and when he manages to take home around a few thousand taka, he feels content. 

While talking to Dalim, a few others gathered around. Among them was Shobuj, a conductor. Shobuj shared that there used to be three staff members on the bus earlier, but now they manage with just two due to lower earnings. Too many buses are on the road, and even more with the same route numbers. As a result, the competition is fierce, especially among buses with the same number, as they share the same passenger destination.

The number refers to the road number. For instance, Mirpur Super Link's road number is 36, while the bus from Gulistan to the airport is labelled as number 132. Buses with the same name also share the same road number. The bus at the front tries its best to block the one coming from behind while the bus behind, in turn, does everything it can to overtake the one in front. The reason behind this fierce competition is simple: the bus that arrives first gets to pick up passengers at the next stand. This competitive hustle is what helpers and conductors like Shobuj refer to as "Kapjhap," meaning a mad rush or frenzy. 

In search of a "korkora" helper

In the middle of the conversation, Jon joined in. He was probably over 50, with a deep voice and a broad physique. He spoke a little English as well. Introducing himself, he said, "I drive the Taranga bus on the Mohammadpur route. This is Dalim, my mentor. I used to work as a helper on his bus. In the past, drivers had great respect."

"Helpers and conductors always tried to follow the driver's mood and work accordingly. No one would go near the steering wheel without the driver's permission. Now, finding a reliable helper is much harder. Sometimes, their value is even higher than that of the driver. When you have a good helper, the driver's job becomes half as easy."

Korkora means skilled and experienced. A bus with a reliable, skilled helper faces fewer risks of accidents, and since more passengers board, the income increases as well. When the bus becomes packed (with more than 15 standing passengers), the helper informs the driver, saying, "jomaiya chalan, ostadh" meaning (there are many passengers; the fare hasn't been collected yet, so drive slowly.)

"Poka"- the passengers

Jon explained, "Back in those days if a rearview mirror broke, it would take about seven days to get it fixed. So, there was a greater reliance on the helper. Today's drivers are much sharper. Every four seconds, they check the left side mirror, and they're constantly looking at the right one. The real problem now is the stress. The driver must stay alert at all times—there's no room for even the slightest mistake."

Special words have been coined to save time and facilitate communication between the driver and helper. For example, "poka," which means passenger.

It's not meant to belittle or disrespect anyone but simply serves as a time-saving term. Saying "poka" takes less time than saying "passenger," and since it's a specific term, it grabs the driver's attention. So, the helper might say, "Ostadh shamne poka ache, thik moton park koren" meaning, "Ostadh, there's a poka (passenger) ahead. Be cautious while parking."

Runaway, rebellious teenagers are often the ones who become bus helpers, and eventually, many of them turn into drivers. They tend to be straightforward and quick-witted, with fewer complications in their thinking. According to Jon, all bus staff around the world share similar traits—they're independent and straightforward. 

"Tip" and "double"

I learned two more terms from Jon. One is "tip," which refers to small vehicles like bikes, rickshaws, and handcarts. The other term is "double," which refers to private cars, not just one but multiple cars.

Dalim said, "You won't find people as patient as bus staff. Every day, we interact with at least 500 people. Not everyone is rude, but most people think bus staff are not good people, that we're of a lower class. They believe we can't be kept in check without insults. Some even go as far as using physical force. Because of this, we don't really have a social life. Our only friends are other bus staff."

When asked which age group of passengers tends to be more polite, Dalim replied, "People over 40 are generally more respectful. Working individuals may be a bit tense during office hours, but otherwise, they don't mistreat bus staff, and they definitely never argue about fares."

"Is there a television here?"

Recently, even middle-class people have started using buses as passengers. According to Jon, a lot of "standard" people now ride the buses. College and university students, as well as working women, are also common passengers. When a beautiful girl boards the bus, a crowd often gathers around her, and they become difficult to move away from. This is highly annoying to conductor Shobuj.

The crowd is usually made up more of middle-aged people than young ones. In such situations, Shobuj and others sarcastically remark, "Ki bhai? Eikhane ki television? Pichone toh onek jayga" (What's this? Is there a television here?. There's plenty of space at the back.)

According to Jon, the behaviour of bus staff has changed in recent times. For example, where they once used the term "Ladies nambe"(ladies will get down), they now say "Mohila nambe" (Women will get down). Jon finds the word "ladies" a bit provocative, and maybe others feel the same. Over time, it gradually shifted to "Mohila," a term that sounds somewhat more respectful.

As we continued talking, time slipped by, and a light drizzle began, raindrops pattering gently. I asked one final question, "When do you feel happy?" 

Seven or eight voices responded in unison. All their answers boiled down to one thing: they're happy when they can finally park the bus and call it a day. They're happiest if they can head home with about a thousand taka in their pocket.